


Everyone's Loss

by madelegg



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Lost Love, M/M, Multi, Sad, Sad Ending, War, no beta we die like sylvain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 02:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21468670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madelegg/pseuds/madelegg
Summary: Sylvain is one of the thousands of casualties of war, and none of the Lions can cope.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 11
Kudos: 96





	Everyone's Loss

Everyone lost friends in war. Everyone lost family. The old Blue Lions were used to loss, well acquainted with it. And yet, it didn’t seem to get any easier. The hurt never went away. It continued to compound, day after day, wrenching at their chests and forcing its way into their nightmares. The grief ballooned, popped, and then grew back. And every new loss only multiplied the grief.

And so, when they lost Sylvain, the Blue Lions seemed to lose themselves.

The Lions knew what they were getting into, going into war. None of them were blind to the danger of fighting at the front lines with their prince, nor did they think they would live forever, and yet, to lose Sylvain so suddenly while Dimitri was lost in his own broken mind seemed to push the old friends over the edge.

None of the Lions spoke to each other after the event. First Dedue, now Sylvain; few of them had much hope left for Dimitri either. The Lions were dwindling fast. The monastery was so quiet.

Most of them hid away. Few spoke to each other. Few were eating properly, if at all. Ashe found himself wandering the monastery, unable to sit still, unable to look at the four walls of his old room without his chest caving in, his throat closing up. He felt that that room would kill him if he remained, so he walked laps, sometimes crying, sometimes silent, his eyes always downcast. 

He passed the dorms, over and over again, and always looked at them. So few were occupied now, the Officer’s Academy closed. It was not just Sylvain they had lost, not just Dedue, but all of the Golden Deer, all of the Black Eagles, old friends and acquaintances that Ashe had so desperately wanted to get to know. That year felt so far away now, and yet if he stopped to stare, he could almost see the ghosts of Edelgard and Hubert, Claude and Hilda, wandering the thousand year old paths, talking, smiling, young, alive.

And now, where were they? Who were they? Certainly not the students they had been five years ago. He’d seen the looks on their faces at Gronder Field, there was no softness there, no regretful recognition, only the hardened steel eyes of soldiers at war as they carved a path toward their ideals.

At the time, Ashe thought that despite being on opposite sides, in a way, he could respect them for fighting for what they believed in. But now, all he did was mourn their deaths, for they were nothing but mindless enemies to him now, in his grief. He couldn’t miss them. He shouldn’t. 

But he knew he probably would, in time.

He wandered past the first floor dorms, pausing at his own, which he’d spent so little time in, then quickened his stride, hands in his pockets, head down. He kicked a rock across the old path, no longer swept clean, Cyril long gone, along with the rest of the groundskeepers. The weeds overran the little gardens and courtyards, the greenhouse was shut down, and the long pathway between the officers academy and the dorms forced a constant wind to rush through, blowing right through Ashe’s clothing and down to his bones. The sun was up—it was mid-afternoon—but it was hidden by heavy clouds, threatening rain.

Slender shoulders hunched, Ashe turned to the stairs leading up to the second floor dorms and climbed, immediately warmed by the lack of wind as he went upstairs and turned, facing the long hallway of the noble students’ dorms. His footsteps echoed down the hall, clomping against the dark wooden floors. He recalled the many times he’d walked past these doors, footsteps following the same worn down path from billions of footsteps, a thousand years of students, visiting, studying, laughing. Thousands of sleepovers. Thousands of curfew breaks. Thousands of first time lovers and broken hearts.

Oh how much fun they had had, playing around, convinced they were adults when they had no idea what the world was really like. How many nights had Ashe spent with Felix and Sylvain, holed up in Felix’s room, just talking, just enjoying each other’s company? How many afternoons with Dedue in the greenhouse? How many evenings with Ingrid in the library? All his friends, he thought they would be with him for a lifetime. But they, like the students before them, were not the immortal beings his youth made him think they were.

Eventually, they all died. To war, perhaps, and to disease and old age and accidents. Some surely lived long lives and others lived short. Sylvain was not the only lost soul here. He would not be the last either.

Ashe found himself standing in front of Felix’s door and knew, instinctively, that his friend was not there. He did not check the doorknob. He didn’t need to. He moved down to Sylvain’s door, nearly at the end of the hallway, Dimitri’s empty dorm beside it. All the doors were shut. Some were locked. But this one…

He tried the knob and it turned, clicked, the old wooden door swinging easily on its massive hinges. The room was dark, a little dusty, and the hazy sunlight filtered through the window in thin rays, illuminating a dark mass on the floor. Felix was sitting beside Sylvain’s bed, hands slack at his side—though one gripped tightly in a fist—his head leaned back on the bare mattress and turned away from the door. The sheets and blankets had been stripped and thrown around, the pillow in his lap and the comforter draped loosely around his shoulders. He didn’t look up to the sound of the door.

Ashe stepped in, heart pounding, not in fear of Felix but at the sight, the smell—of Sylvain filling the room still. His death was so fresh; the signs of his life still hung around everything he touched: old love letters strewn on his desk, a vase of dead dried flowers, the water since evaporated, a ring, tarnished with wear, left behind so he wouldn’t lose it in battle. This was a room he prepared to come back to. This was a room well lived in.

All across the floor were the shattered pieces of Sylvain’s marble chess board, slammed against the ground in a fit of rage, and the chess pieces were scattered with it. Ashe stepped on one as he entered, lifting his boot to find a rook beneath it. He pushed it aside. Felix still did not look up. Ashe wondered if he was asleep.

He stepped gingerly around the shattered marble chips and chess pieces, circling Felix’s slackened body until he could see his face. He was not asleep. He looked, instead, like a corpse, eyes open, staring at the wall, his face pale and eyes swollen and dark, and for a moment, a violent spark of fear shot through Ashe’s face, thinking Felix, too, was gone. But his sharp eyes jerked to Ashe’s, dry lips glued shut. Ashe did not ask if he was okay. None of them were. But he could not leave Felix here in agony, nor could Ashe bear to return to solitude again. He wanted to say something, but his throat came up empty, so he knelt down beside Felix and stared at him. 

Felix’s brows lowered, his eyelids drooping, and Ashe leaned forward, resting his forehead on Felix’s shoulder. Nothing he said would ever be enough.

From beneath the blanket, Felix’s arm shifted and Ashe moved back, out of the way, as his old friend raised an arm: an invitation. Ashe thought perhaps he should be surprised, flattered, but his chest was empty as he lowered himself into Felix’s side, resting his head against his friend’s chest, and the blanketed arm wrapped around his shoulders. 

It was familiar. Ashe had been here before, on long, quiet nights five years ago, resting against Felix, falling asleep in his bed while studying, or simply in his arms after a long day. They were never together, but Felix found himself opening up to Ashe before anyone else, even before his childhood friends, and Ashe was always so willing to listen.

But now, neither of them could speak. They could only rest, listen to the other’s heartbeat, and pray that it would remain beating for a little longer. 

Ashe slouched a little, moving his arms under the blanket, wrapping them around Felix’s thin waist, and felt his ribs beneath his shirt, under the skin. The rationing at the monastery was not idea, and none of them had been eating much since Sylvain’s death. Ashe doubted Felix had left this room since the funeral days ago. The thought of losing his friend to grief and starvation chilled him. 

Sitting up, Ashe finally spoke. “I’m going to the dining hall. I’ll be back with food for us.”

But before the words had even gotten out of his mouth, Felix’s arm tightened around him, forcing him back into his side, the grip forceful enough for Ashe to know that Felix was not messing around. Ashe reached a hand up, gripping a fistful of Felix’s shirt.

“Later then,” he said. “I’ll do it later.”

Felix rested his chin on Ashe’s head, loosening his grip just a little, knowing Ashe was there to stay, and for a while, they remained. Outside, the cloudy sky had started to erupt, the heavy raindrops slamming against the windows of Sylvain’s dorm, and Ashe’s eyes stung. He pressed his face into Felix’s shirt, clinging as though the void threatened to pull him away at any moment. And then he felt a wetness cool the top of his head.

He slowly slid his head out from under Felix’s chin, and Felix stared at him, eyes bloodshot, tears spilling down his cheeks, but he made no sound, his breathing did not change. His lips only parted, inhaling, exhaling, eyes empty of life and light. Ashe reached his hand up, cupped Felix’s cheek, wiping the tears from one side only for more to fall. A light cough, a suppressed sob, jerked Ashe’s body and his own spilled over.

“I miss him,” Ashe said, voice cracking, as if he needed to announce that. Of course he missed him. They all did. But he needed to get it out; he needed to say it.

Felix only stared, so empty, as Ashe cradled his face in both hands, his shoulders shaking, sobs forcing their way out. Goddess, it hurt. It never stopped hurting. It only waxed and waned, and the sunny days were only brief respites between rainy ones. Sylvain was never coming back. He was never coming back. Just to comprehend it seemed impossible, even after they’d placed his casket into a carriage to be brought back to his home and buried there. Ashe just kept having to remind himself that this pain was not temporary; Sylvain would always be dead. All his jokes, all his playfulness, his sharp mind, his lonely heart, his strength, his dedication to his friends, gone. And there was no prayer, no magic, no miracle that could bring him back.

Ashe felt sick. Hands still clinging to Felix’s face, he hung his head, gasping, sniffling, snot and tears spilling down his face. Slowly, his friend’s heavy arms wrapped around him, pulling him down, and he tipped into Felix’s chest. Felix pulled him further in, hefted him into his lap, and wrapped the blanket around the both of them while Ashe shook, a tuft of his white hair the only thing visible.

“I miss him,” Ashe said again, his voice heavy and wet, trembling with his body. “I miss him. I miss him; I want him back.”

Felix’s arms tightened around Ashe and he buried his face in his white hair again, closing his eyes.

“It’s not fair. It shouldn’t have been him. Shot down by… no one. A footsoldier. It should have been…”  _ It should have been one of our old friends. _ Ashe couldn’t finish the sentence. But if Sylvain had had to die, it should have been at the hand of an equal.

“It should have been me.” Felix’s voice was so hoarse Ashe could barely hear it.

“What?”

Felix swallowed; Ashe heard the shifting of his dry throat. “I should have died. In his place.”

“Felix, no,” Ashe said, clinging to him tighter. “Felix no, goddess no, please no, not you.”

“Our promise,” Felix said.

Ashe shook his head, face rubbing against his friend’s chest. He knew what Felix spoke of, remembered Sylvain mentioning it years ago; if one died, the other went with them. And Felix was starving.

“Felix, you don’t have to keep it. He wouldn’t want you to keep it,” Ashe begged. “Please no, goddess no… We can’t lose you too. I can’t lose you…”

Ashe wanted to be more articulate, to express to Felix all the reasons why he couldn’t die, why such a waste of life would be pointless and to die for the dead was pointless, but all he could do was sob.

“I will not keep it, Ashe,” Felix murmured. “I will not die for the dead.”

Ashe paused, took a deep breath, and slouched his weight against Felix. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you…”

Felix slid his hand up into Ashe’s hair, pressing his wet face further into his shirt, soaking up his tears, and felt Ashe’s body relax further, slump into him, exhausted. He’d been walking for so long. Pacing for so long. Unable to sit still for days, feet aching, body frozen deep beneath the skin. And now it hit him at once, as these things always did, and Ashe could not move from Felix’s lap.

They slept, shallowly, on and off, as the sun sank lower, unseen behind the heavy clouds, and the rain continued. Neither woke until it was long gone, and Ashe was the first to open his eyes to the complete darkness. He sat up, his whole body aching, back stiff, and eyes stale from the dried tears on his cheeks. His head felt stuffed with cotton and his hands trembled when he moved them.

Felix’s eyes were still closed, head drooping down, and strands of his long hair fell in his face. Ashe moved his hand up to his friend’s neck, sliding it under his hair and pressing two fingers against his artery, feeling the steady thump. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

In his sleep, Felix’s arms had slumped back at his side, so Ashe could shift easily to straddle him, taking the weight off his friend’s legs. His knee nudged his friend’s right hand and he looked down, seeing, in his uncurled palm, a chess piece. The knight. His hand was red with the imprint of holding it so tightly for so long. Ashe’s heart lurched violently and he coughed to keep himself from letting out another sob.

Felix’s eyes opened slowly, woken by the sound, and Ashe pulled his head against his chest. Felix let it happen, fingers closing around the piece again. Ashe wanted to tell him it would be okay, that he would make it okay, but he only had the strength to hold his tears back, and had to keep his mouth shut. 

He took a few deep breaths and released Felix’s head, his hands sliding down to cup the man’s cheeks, and their bleary, red eyes met. Ashe touched his lips to Felix’s forehead and left them there. He murmured against his skin.

“I’m going to go get you something to eat. Please let me.”

Felix said nothing. His arms remained at his sides. Ashe lifted his lips and backed up, pulled the blanket more snugly around Felix’s shoulders and arms, and then stood. His friend’s eyes followed him as he walked out and closed when he was gone.

—— — — — 

There wasn’t much in the dining hall for Ashe to choose from. The rationing made it difficult to even get into the kitchen to get food, but given the circumstances, and given the fact that so few of the Lions had been collecting all of their mealtime rations each day, he was given a pass to take two meals, plus a little extra. It was nothing fancy: roasted pheasant in gravy with potatoes and boiled carrots. It wouldn’t have much flavor, but then, very little in Faerghus did. He and Felix were used to it.

He brought the food back, piled heavy on one plate so he could carry it easily, with a cover on it to keep it from cooling in the frigid weather and drizzling rain. By the time he got back into the dorms, he was soaked through, his white hair sticking to his face, but the food was warm and protected. He knocked on the door with his elbow, unable to open it without putting the food down, and he preferred not to.

It took a minute or two, but the door swung open, and Felix loomed, hunched over, his greasy hair hanging flat against his head. In the darkness of the room, Ashe could barely even see his face, but he knew the weight of the bags under his eyes, the gentle curve of his sunken cheeks. His heart broke again and again.

“I brought food,” Ashe said, voice small.

Felix stepped aside to let him in, stepping on shards of marble and chess pieces with his bare feet, unbothered, his right hand still gripped fiercely around the knight. He slumped back down on the ground and Ashe knelt next to him, uncovering the meal.

“I got as much as I could. To split between us. Do you think you could eat?”

Felix shrugged. Ashe doubted he was hungry, not after fasting for so long, but hopefully he was willing to get better, willing to push through. By his words, Ashe thought he was.

Ashe quietly started to cut the meat into smaller pieces, easier for Felix to eat bit by bit, and while his eyes were trained on the plate, Felix yanked the blanket out from behind himself and draped it around Ashe’s wet shoulders.

“I can cut my own food,” he said. “You should get yourself changed.”

“Ah, I’m fine,” Ashe said.

Felix huffed. “We have enough people out of commission right now without you falling ill. Get a shirt from Sylvain’s closet. He’s not using them.”

Ashe’s throat constricted at the callousness of such a statement, but Ashe knew Felix wasn’t the sentimental type. Or, at least, that’s what he thought. He looked at Felix’s right hand, still clenched. Was he just trying to pretend this didn’t bother him?

Ashe didn’t have the energy to disagree though, especially not with Felix in such a fragile state, so he stood up, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders, and walked to the closet, pushing it open. Sylvain’s clothes hung there, his old uniform, his casual clothes, his formalwear, all waiting for their owner to return. Ashe swallowed hard. He removed his own jacket and layers of shirts, all soaked through, and pushed his pants to the floor with them, leaving him in only his underwear. He reached out for one of Sylvain’s old nightshirts, cream colored and long sleeved. Grabbing it by the sleeve, he let the weight of his arm yank it off the hanger. His hands shook as he put it on.

The collar of the shirt was so large it hung off one of Ashe’s slender shoulders and the bottom hem draped far past his hips. It smelled strongly of Sylvain and Ashe felt his chest pounding violently against his ribcage. His hands shook as he rubbed the hem between his thumb and forefinger, hair leaving droplets of rain on the floor.

“Come here, Ashe.”

Felix’s commanding voice interrupted Ashe’s thoughts and he jumped, turning around. Felix stared at him, unreadable, but his hand beckoned him to come back. He shuffled over, trying to keep from stepping on anything sharp while he walked, and crouched down near Felix, his knees sliding up into the shirt. Felix pushed the plate of food out of the way and took Ashe’s arm, pulling him closer.

Ashe lost his balance, falling forward on his knees, shirt sliding up his back, head bowed. His shoulders shook.

“Ashe.” Felix’s voice was much softer now, coaxing him, hand moving to his face. “Come here.”

Slowly Ashe raised his head, eyes stinging red, and Felix coaxed him into his lap again, then bowed his head and pressed it into Ashe’s chest.

“His old cologne…” Felix mumbled.

Ah. So that was why.

Ashe wrapped his arms around Felix’s head, pushing him further into his chest.

“You always loved him,” Ashe said softly. Felix did not respond, but the way he pressed into Ashe was answer enough. Ashe nuzzled into his greasy hair, his lips resting in the part.

“I can’t make it better,” he whispered.

Felix swallowed hard. “I know.”

“But I’ll stay here.”

Felix took a few shaky breaths. Slowly his left hand wrapped around Ashe’s waist. Then the right, fist still clenched.

“I’ll stay here,” Ashe whispered again, palm pressed gently to Felix’s neck.

Felix made a soft moaning noise, and Ashe didn’t know if it was in agreement or distress, but his friend’s hand slowly uncurled. The knight, peeling from his sweaty palm, fell down Ashe’s back and hit the ground, clattering away softly. And that reddened palm flattened against his back.

“...stay here,” Felix repeated.

And the wet spot on Sylvain’s shirt spread.


End file.
